City of Dragons (43 page)

“Mr. Wong was a good man.”

“Yeah.”

They’d reached the end of the circle. He’d walked the length of the cage, but couldn’t figure out how to get out of it. Right back to the doorway, head swinging sideways, an occasional roar. Try again.

She said it softly, cheerily, like an invitation to breakfast. “You don’t have to listen to them.”

Bennie’s brow wrinkled. Couldn’t figure out how it would work. She kept going, more urgency in her voice.

“You’re your own man, Bennie, just like Mr. Wong treated you. Remember?”

“My wife liked him. She don’t like Coppa.”

“Right. Maybe she’s afraid of him?”

The lion roared again. Miranda was getting used to the gun pointed at her. This time it shook in his hands. Eyes wild.

“I can save her! She don’t need to be afraid!”

More soothing noises. But hurried. “Of course she doesn’t. She knows you’ll protect her from him. Because you know about the women, the women from the ships, don’t you, Bennie? You know what they do to them, and so did Mr. Wong, and Mr. Wong didn’t like it. He didn’t like the ships at all, did he, Bennie?”

More pacing. Around and around Miranda. She didn’t move, didn’t turn to watch him behind her, kept her voice up. Noises from down the hall. Front door slam. She was running out of time.

“He don’t like them. Mr. Wong don’t like them. Likes Mary. He likes Mary, bought her presents sometimes. Gave me money for her.”

“He didn’t like what they do to the ship women. Did Mary come on a ship, Bennie?”

Somewhere behind her, the thud of his footsteps halted suddenly. Effort in thinking, following the tangle. Getting out of the cage.

He slowly said: “Yeah. She come on a ship.”

“That’s why she doesn’t like Coppa. Why she liked Mr. Wong. Mr. Wong was nice. Coppa is very bad to women from ships. Like he was bad to Betty Chow.”

Shot in the dark. He took a step toward the door as if he was going to walk through it, hesitated. Turned back to face her, his face contorted with the effort of thought.

“Coppa is bad to Mary, maybe. Mr. Wong was good, that’s why Coppa made me kill him.”

“That’s right, Bennie. He should never have made you do that. Your wife doesn’t like him.”

“Yeah.” His jaw was setting, and he looked at the door again, cocking the gun.

“You can save Mary from Coppa.”

Brow wrinkled again. Looked from her back to the door. “How?”

“You can kill Coppa.”

He lowered the gun, brought his left thumb up to his mouth. He chewed the nail, rhythmically biting and sucking. Then he walked backward, still facing the door, sitting down again.

More noise below. A couple of loud voices. Door slam, cars outside.

Somebody was climbing the stairs.

The door flung open, and Malone walked in quickly and shut the door, freezing when he saw Bennie standing with his legs apart, his face sweating, his .38 trained squarely on Malone’s head. Malone laughed nervously, bringing his hand up to his grimy collar.

“For fuck’s sake, Bennie, why you tryin’ to scare me? Put that away. I’ll cover the broad.”

Bennie had seized an idea, and it wrapped him, enveloped him, gave him focus. Drops of sweat tumbled down from his forehead, and his eyes were hurt and raging, like a dog that’s been kicked one too many times and figures, What the hell, I’ll bite.

“Coppa’s got Mary. Where is he?”

Malone blinked several times, and took a step forward. Bennie cocked the gun.

“Jesus H. Christ, what the fuck’s got into you? Coppa don’t got Mary.”

“He told me to kill Mr. Wong. You told me to kill Mr. Wong.”

Malone’s forehead was starting to bead up. “Wong turned stoolie, Bennie. He was tryin’ to send up the boss.”

“Mr. Wong’s the boss. Coppa ain’t got no right to be boss.”

Malone shot a look at Miranda, rasped out to Bennie, “This bitch been yankin’ your chain or something? You can’t go after Coppa, he’s the boss!”

The last word was barely out of his lips when Bennie pulled the trigger. In the flash of the shot, Miranda grabbed the case and palmed the Baby Browning.

Red spread on Malone’s shirt, washing over the mustard and pickle from his sandwich. He looked down at it in disbelief, spurts timed to the beat of his heart. His knees went first, and he crumpled, falling to the floor, no strength to look at Bennie, to wonder why and how, wavering, his massive head the last to land, finding a hard place on the floor. Arms splayed, legs crooked. The red was seeping, not spurting anymore.

Pounding feet on stairs, shouts. At least three, maybe more.

Bennie had forgotten about her. He licked his lips, and stared at the doorway. Removed a 9 mm from a shoulder holster, held it out with his left hand. She could hear him whisper “Mary” over and over again. She slowly climbed out of the chair, and knelt behind it.

Door rattled, somebody barked, “Stand back.” Another voice yelled, “What the fuck is going on, Malone?”

Bennie didn’t answer. His wife’s name was a refrain now, a constant hum in his head and down to his hand and trigger finger, to the gun that was a part of his body. Whispered conversation on the other side of the door. Miranda held the Browning, ready to fire.

“Malone?”

The door opened a crack. A gun muzzle peeked in. Followed by a hand, and arm, and a sideways entrance of another Italian boy. Another Dapper Danny. Must be Coppa’s or Martini’s men.

He was a small man, lithe like a dancer, and he flinched back around the door when he saw Malone’s body and Bennie’s gun aimed at him.

She caught a few words. “Moron” and “crazy sonofabitch” and “get the boss” and “charge.” No volunteers came forward. A few minutes later, more steps, going down, going up. More minutes. Bennie’s face was covered in sweat and spattered blood. It fell into his eyes and he didn’t stop to wipe it. He didn’t need his eyes to see anymore.

Her knees were starting to hurt, and she reshuffled her weight, making herself ready.

Voice behind the door, a purr.

“Bennie? You all right, Bennie? It’s Joe, Bennie, Joe Coppa.”

Wrong words.

Fusillade. Five shots from the .38, six from the 9 mm. At the sound of the first bullet, something thudded hard against the wood, and bullets fell like yesterday’s rain, catching Bennie, shoulder out, blood-spray, thigh and stomach, right arm, but the .38 was already empty, and the left hand kept firing, firing as the elbow got blown off, a bullet finally finding his throat, tearing it open, Bennie falling, weaving to the floor, draping on Malone, brotherly embrace. Eyes glassy. Mouth trying to make the word “Mary.”

Silence. Always silence in the aftermath.

Voice muttered, “You OK? Crazy bastard got the boss.”

Another one, whiny. “Hurts like fuck. Where the fuck is Needles?”

“It’s just your fucking leg, asshole. I’ll go get him.”

“Somebody’s gotta tell Martini. And Charlie.”

The other one scoffed. “Charlie don’t get told nothin’. He’s a big zero. Even Gillio ain’t much these days. Fucking San Francisco mutts. Like that hop-head Bennie, crazy motherfucker. I’ll go get Needles. He’s at the Settlement.”

Footsteps. Whiny voice. “Wait … what if somebody else is in there?”

“You pissin’ your pants? I didn’t take you for a goddamn pansy, Noldano.”

Noldano. One of the drivers. One of the bastards who tried to run her over.

“Fuck you. Just hand me a gun, then. Mine’s empty.”

“Oh, for Chrissakes. There’s no one in the goddamn room. Supposed to be that fucking Corbie broad in there, knows where the Takahashi bitch is. Nutty bastard probably drilled her before she could talk.”

“Just give me a goddamn gun.”

Heaving sigh. “You’re a fuckwad, you know that? I’ll go in the door, so you don’t have to play with yourself. What a fucking pansy.”

He turned the knob and kicked the door open. He stood in the doorway, staring down at Malone and Bennie, shaking his head. His gun was hanging from his right hand, pointed at the floor.

A click. A voice.

“Drop it.”

Miranda.

Twenty-Eight

S
urprise. Anger. Derision.

The 9 mm Luger in his hand came up at the same time his mouth opened.

“Fuck you, bit—”

The last word ended in a gurgle, as the Baby Browning spat, and he jerked backward, staring down in disbelief at the hole in his stomach. He clutched his gut and the Luger fell, skidding across the floor.

Miranda scooped it up with her left hand, dropping it in her other jacket pocket. Kept behind the door. Outside, Noldano was trying to stand up on his one good leg.

“What the fuck—Capella? What the fuck is going on? Throw me a fucking gun!”

His partner backed up against the wall, clutching his stomach with his fingers, fighting for breath. Looked up at Miranda, eyes almost as red as his hands.

“Thought—thought that was a toy.”

She stared at him, said nothing.

Noldano was nearly hysterical. “Who you talking to? For Chrissakes, what the fuck is going on?”

She raised her voice. “I just shot your partner in the stomach. You want him to live—you wanna walk again—crawl in here. Or I’ll blow off your other kneecap.”

Pause. Capella was sweating from the pain. Staring at her gun, trying to figure out how big the bullet was, how long he had left. He braced his back on the wall, slowly slid down it until he was sitting, his legs outstretched, his feet limp.

Noldano tried to put some bluff in his voice.

“You that Corbie broad? Why the fuck should we listen to you? You ain’t gonna hurt us. The boys’ll be here soon … you can kiss your face good-bye, lady, ’cause it won’t look the same after—”

“Crawl in here by the time I count to three, Noldano. Or you can kiss your legs good-bye. Who knows? After what you motherfuckers tried to do to me, I might blow out your ankle for the hell of it.”

Some shuffling and skidding. A few whimpering noises. He was dragging himself in.

Capella was fighting to stay conscious. Miranda watched his head bob and weave, a boxing match with the wall. Waited behind the door until she could see Noldano on his knuckles scooting painfully across the threshold, his right leg stretched and broken behind him. Like Capella, he was dressed expensively, a pinstripe gray suit, three-piece, with rubber-soled shoes and cashmere socks. The dancer in the doorway.

She waved the Baby Browning at Noldano. “Over there with your partner.”

He looked up at the sound of her voice, fear in his face until he saw the gun. Then he stopped crawling, staring first at her, then turning back to Capella.

“A broad with a pop gun? You let a broad with a pop gun get the fucking jump on you?”

She took a step forward. “It’s a .25 mm. It might kill you, and then it might not. Ask Capella. Up against the wall.”

Noldano managed to park himself next to the bigger man. He nudged his partner with his shoulder, but Capella was almost out.

“When will Martini be here?”

Noldano eyed her and clutched his mangled leg, grimacing, trying to put it back together. Shot-up shin and knee. Dangling, blown apart. Humpty fucking Dumpty.

“Why the fuck—should I—tell you?”

“So you won’t get the gas chamber.”

He shook his head. “Nuts to you, bitch. Martini’ll like doing you.”

“Martini. Now. And where the women are.”

“Fuck you, lady.”

Miranda shrugged, aimed the Browning. Noldano screamed when his left arm hit the wall.

“It could’ve been your other leg. Next time it will be.”

The other gunman was unconscious, splayed sideways against the wall, breathing shallowly. He didn’t have much time. Noldano’s eyes, large and round, darted back and forth between Capella and Miranda.

“What you wanna know?”

“Martini—he’s coming here?”

“For a—for a meeting. Seven o’clock.”

She snuck a glance at her watch. Seventeen minutes.

“What’s the meeting room—and where is he now?”

“Settlement. Covered Wagon. Upstairs and backrooms. This here’s the safehouse. They usually talk downstairs. Dining room.”

“Needles with him? And Gillio?”

He shook his head, blood seeping through his fingers where he held the arm above the elbow.

“Needles, yeah. Gillio don’t show up except to collect. He and the boss talk by themselves. We never know the cut or nothing.”

“What about Charlie?”

“The Flip? He ain’t nothing. Still trying to find the money that Jap stole, bendin’ over for the boss. We was using his people to take care of the women. After Wong, the boss don’t want no slanties around, ’cept for the driver. Willie’s OK.”

“Where is Charlie?”

“Some Chink joint on Jackson. Little Manila or something.”

“And the women?”

He jerked his head toward the floor. “Down in the basement. ’Til they’re ready for tryin’ out, then Coppa brings ’em upstairs. When they’re good enough, they go to the Settlement. This here’s a new batch.”

Miranda gestured with the small pistol, her voice low.

“When they’re not good enough?”

He tried to shrug, groaned, grabbed his arm again. “Mexico. Trade ’em for Mexicans.”